embling at the fear of discovery, and wondering, as he went to
sleep each night, whether he would not be awakened by the rude hand
of the police tapping him on the shoulder. No one better than Mme.
Favoral could affirm it.

"Your father, my children," she said, "had long since lost his sleep.
There was hardly ever a night that he did not get up and walk the
room for hours."

They understood, now, his efforts to compel Mlle. Gilberte to marry
M. Costeclar.

"He thought that Costeclar would help him out of the scrape,"
suggested Maxence to his sister.

The poor girl shuddered at the thought, and she could not help
feeling thankful to her father for not having told her his situation;
for would she have had the sublime courage to refuse the sacrifice,
if her father had told her?

"I have stolen! I am lost! Costeclar alone can save me; and he
will save me if you become his wife."

M. Favoral's pleasant behavior during the siege was quite natural.
Then he had no fears; and one could understand how in the most
critical hours of the Commune, when Paris was in flames, he could
have exclaimed almost cheerfully,

"Ah! this time it is indeed the final liquidation."

Doubtless, in the bottom of his heart, he wished that Paris might
be destroyed, and, with it, the evidences of his crime. And
perhaps he was not the only one to form that impious wish.

"That's why, then," exclaimed Maxence,--"that's why my father
treated me so rudely: that's why he so obstinately persisted in
closing the offices of the Mutual Credit against me."

He was interrupted by a violent ringing of the door-bell. He looked
at the clock: ten o'clock was about to strike.

"Who can call so late?" said Mme. Favoral.

Something like a discussion was heard in the hall,--a voice hoarse
with anger, and the servant's voice.

"Go and see who's there," said Gilberte to her brother.

It was useless; the servant appeared.

"It's M. Bertan," she commenced, "the baker--" He had followed her,
and, pushing her aside with his robust arm, he appeared himself.
He was a man about forty years of age, tall, thin, already bald,
and wearing his beard trimmed close.

"M. Favoral?" he inquired.

"My father is not at home," replied Maxence.

"It's true, then, what I have just been told?"

"What?"

"That the police came to arrest him, and he escaped through a window."

"It's true," replied Maxence gently.

The baker seemed prostrated.

"And my money?" h